


Room Temperature

by iniquiticity



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Quid Pro Quo, Angst, Hospitalization, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, QPQVerse, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-26
Updated: 2016-03-26
Packaged: 2018-05-29 07:44:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6365329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iniquiticity/pseuds/iniquiticity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a while, he feels like a ruined town after a firefight, all gaping holes in walls and blown-out windows and dirt-stained items, once objects of affection, in bloody streets.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Room Temperature

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Quid Pro Quo](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5880157) by [rillrill](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rillrill/pseuds/rillrill). 



> Quid Pro Quo verse: President George Washington's chief of staff, Alexander Hamilton, takes a bullet for him.
> 
> Felt a little long for tumblr, so it's here. I went through and read all the asks on this topic and realized I missed almost of them. Whoops. Also, I'm not a doctor nor have I ever spent real time in a hospital, so I apologize if this is medically inaccurate. 
> 
> You can find me on [tumblr @ iniquiticity](http://www.iniquiticity.tumblr.com/) and [twitter @ picklesnake](https://twitter.com/picklesnake).

George is sitting there, staring dully at the parts of Alex that he can see in the hospital bed. Most of him is hidden - needles and wires running up and out of his arms, chest tightly wrapped, even the respirator covering half his face. All he has is Alex's eyes, closed in a mockery of a peaceful sleep. All he has is the persistent beep of machines, all at once monstrous and an incredible relief. All he has is the knowledge that Alex won't take this laying down, that Alex will fight tooth and nail because that's what Alex does, that's what they do, that's what they do for each other, and what Alex has done for him --- 

A terrible, retching noise is ripped from Alex's throat from under the respirator. Gasp is much too generous, because it's wet and sickening and filled with effort. Wheeze would be flattering, because it sounds like a hand has reached down and torn it from his throat like ripping a bone from a socket. George has been in active military zones, spent time in overcrowded hospitals, made visits to refugee camps, and it's without a question the most terrible noise he's ever heard. 

It races from his ear to his brain in a second, and rattles through the neurons, setting each one of them to code red. 

Alex is gasping and hyperventilating through the respirator, his whole little frame wracked with trembles, and much like his brain all the alarms all go off at once, the constant pattern of the beeps transforming into a terrible, catastrophic whine, and he stands so fast that he knocks the chair over, panic and helplessness rising his his throat along with bile, and God, Alex, please God, don't take his Alexander, don't take this creature which is everything to him, he'll do anything, he'll announce to the public, he'll resign, he'll cast himself off to some miserable island -- anything, please, anything that this isn't the end, that Alex didn't bring this end on himself, to protect him, to -- 

Doctors appear all around him, one grabbing his arm and giving him a tug back, saying words he barely hears. "Mr. President, please, you have to leave, now, we have to --" only whatever comes next is a blur, and he can't see anything but men pushing Alex's poor form into the bed, staring at monitors and talking to each other in low, focused voices. How can anyone be focused when his Alexander is like this, when some disaster is occurring right there within his precious boy, his baby, his princess, his everything--- 

"Mr. President," says a soft voice at his shoulder, and his jacket is being pulled away, and he has to go with the jacket, of course, because he's wearing it. The hand at his shoulder puts him in a chair and sits next to him, intertwines delicate, manicured fingers with his own.

"Eliza," he manages, in a choked voice. He squeezes her hand, and it must hurt because he's coming apart at the seams, but she doesn't complain. He tries to clamp down on it, tries to get control, tries to wrap up his unravelling edges, but they seem resistant to his commands in a way his emotions usually aren't. In a way Alex can do to his emotions. In a way his Alex, who's dying right at this very moment, and he's here, and how could he, how could they---

"It's OK," Eliza says, putting her other hand over both of theirs, squeezing again. He doesn't even have the sense to look to see if maybe someone is watching, doesn't care, just covers his face with his forearms, feels the sobs tear away from their shackles in the back of his throat and carry their revolt through him. 

** 

After a while, he feels like a ruined town after a firefight, all gaping holes in walls and blown-out windows and dirt-stained items, once objects of affection, in bloody streets. The doctor clears her throat; he looks up at her, wonders if she voted for him, wonders if she was electing someone she thought was an unshakeable leader and now she's seeing him lose it over one of his staff members that took a bullet for him. Maybe she voted against him and now she feels affirmed that she knew he was... what? Weak? Over-emotional? In the closet, maybe, although it's never been a publicly-traded rumor, aside from those internet blogs he hates that Alex always gets a kick out of. _Alex_ his heart says, and every time he thinks about it, it hurts more.

"Mr. President. Miss Schuyler," she says, pulling her mask down so it rests around her neck. For a second, George is waiting to be told that his life has been summarily shattered.

"The news is pretty good." 

Words have not been invented to express what happens to his chest. Let them say whatever they want about him, about them -- let him be exposed for a fraud or a liar or a cheat, let everyone know that he loves Alexander more than he loves the world -- he can't stop his face from doing whatever it's doing. 

"We didn't expect him to start breathing on his own so early," the doctor says, taking a steadying breath of her own, "So that's good. Mr. Hamilton isn't going down easy, that's at least for sure."

George chokes on a laugh that's half a sob. Eliza only manages the sob half.

"If he can keep breathing on his own for the next couple of hours, that's a pretty significant hurdle to clear. I mean, even if he does, we're not out of the woods yet, and we're not ready to upgrade his condition from critical, but it's a good sign. A really good sign." 

"Thank you," he says, softly, because he has nothing left. Eliza manages nothing, being that her face is buried in his bicep. He's very sure that the tears are real.

** 

_At least he’s breathing on his own_ is a lot less comforting than George would like to admit, especially with how often he thinks it. It would be nice if he could convince himself that Alex will definitely wake up, that Alex will be whining about physical therapy, that he will have to yell at Alex to use his crutches. 

He has never hated how small Alex looks before. He won’t let himself hold Alex’s hand, but he touches the back of it sometimes, just to assure himself Alex is still alive. Alex is usually a furnace but he’s just room temperature now, which has to be enough. At least he’s alive and breathing on his own. It has to be enough. 

He touches the back of Alex’s hand, and it twitches. He has to have imagined it in his desperation, he thinks.

He draws his finger over the bit of skin between Alex’s index and middle knuckle, and Alex’s thumb is definitely moving under his hand, lifting with the immense effort it must take to do so little. 

“Alex?” He says, softly, taking Alex’s hand in his and hoping even though he knows he shouldn’t. “It’s George.” 

He definitely isn’t imagining the smallest of pressures against him, the barest squeeze. 

“I’m here,” he says, too quickly, and his throat is getting tight again, thinking that -- maybe things will be fine. Maybe things really _will_ be fine. Maybe Alex _will_ whine about physical therapy and not use his crutches. He can’t imagine something more wonderful than yelling at Alex to use his crutches or to go home or to take it easy or making him dinner. 

He looks up from the hand to see Alex’s throat working and shakes his head, because what else would be more Alex then to start talking immediately? 

“Don’t,” he says, and he reaches with the other hand to touch Alex’s neck where he can see the muscles working under the skin. They still under his touch, as light as it is. Something about it makes a swell of relief grow in his stomach. He reaches up and brushes a few stray, dark strands of hair from his sweat-slicked forehead, and draws his hand down Alex’s cheek. Alex makes a weak little noise and George shushes him. “Go back to sleep,” he murmurs. 

Alex’s face looks more like sleeping and less like a drug-induced coma. That’s good. George touches his hand again.

It feels warmer.

**Author's Note:**

> If this bit interests you and you'd like more, I recommend reading [Quid Pro Quo](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5880157?view_full_work=true) or following QPQ's esteemed author [lizdexia on tumblr](http://www.lizdexia.tumblr.com).


End file.
